Community Funny Quotes

It's funny that we think of libraries as quiet demure places where we are shushed by dusty, bun-balancing, bespectacled women. The truth is libraries are raucous clubhouses for free speech, controversy and community. Librarians have stood up to the Patriot Act, sat down with noisy toddlers and reached out to illiterate adults. Libraries can never be shushed.

You see, writers traveling to Southeast Asia visit indigenous communities. No writing quest will be complete without some cross-cultural comparisons. This exercise is a decisive moment in every author’s life. Equate it to a photographer meeting his first old man with a wrinkled face or the old lady with heavy earrings dangling from her earlobes.

Now, my intention was to drink just enough to dull the senses, but intentions should never be mixed with alcohol.

Now, there are things I like just fine about church, and I don’t just mean making money. The notion of getting together as a community to remind ourselves why we shouldn’t behave like animals is a fucking great idea.

Now, as I understand it, the bards were feared. They were respected, but more than that they were feared. If you were just some magician, if you'd pissed off some witch, then what's she gonna do, she's gonna put a curse on you, and what's gonna happen? Your hens are gonna lay funny, your milk's gonna go sour, maybe one of your kids is gonna get a hare-lip or something like that — no big deal. You piss off a bard, and forget about putting a curse on you, he might put a satire on you. And if he was a skilful bard, he puts a satire on you, it destroys you in the eyes of your community, it shows you up as ridiculous, lame, pathetic, worthless, in the eyes of your community, in the eyes of your family, in the eyes of your children, in the eyes of yourself, and if it's a particularly good bard, and he's written a particularly good satire, then three hundred years after you're dead, people are still gonna be laughing, at what a twat you were.

For their never-ending endeavours to obtain or retain wealth, countries desperately need companies, because they—unlike most human beings—have the means of production, and human beings, because they—unlike all companies—have the means of reproduction.

Hm-m," he said. "Lookie, Ma. I been all day an' all night hidin' alone. Guess who I been thinkin' about? Casy! He talked a lot. Used ta bother me. But now I been thinkin' what he said, an' I can remember-all of it. Says one time he went out in the wilderness to find his own soul, an' he foun' he didn' have no soul that was his'n. Says he foun' he jus' got a little piece of a great big soul. Says a wilderness ain't no good, 'cause his little piece of a soul wasn't no good 'less it was with the rest, an' was whole. Funny how I remember. Didn't even think I was listenin'. But I know now a fella ain't no good alone.

Responding to a moderator at the Sydney Writers Festival in 2008 (video), about the Spanish words in his book: When all of us are communicating and talking when we’re out in the world, we’ll be lucky if we can understand 20 percent of what people say to us. A whole range of clues, of words, of languages escape us. I mean we’re not perfect, we’re not gods. But on top of that people mis-speak, sometimes you mis-hear, sometimes you don’t have attention, sometimes people use words you don’t know. Sometimes people use languages you don’t know. On a daily basis, human beings are very comfortable with a large component of communication, which is incomprehensibility, incomprehension. We tend to be comfortable with it. But for an immigrant, it becomes very different. What most of us consider normative comprehension an immigrant fears that they’re not getting it because of their lack of mastery in the language. And what’s a normal component in communication, incomprehension, in some ways for an immigrant becomes a source of deep anxiety because you’re not sure if it’s just incomprehension or your own failures. My sense of writing a book where there is an enormous amount of language that perhaps everyone doesn’t have access to was less to communicate the experience of the immigrant than to communicate the experience that for an immigrant causes much discomfort but that is normative for people. which is that we tend to not understand, not grasp a large part of the language around us. What’s funny is, will Ramona accept incomprehension in our everyday lives and will greet that in a book with enormous fury. In other words what we’re comfortable with out in the outside world, we do not want to encounter in our books. So I’m constantly, people have come to me and asked me… is this, are you trying to lock out your non-Dominican reader, you know? And I’m like, no? I assume any gaps in a story and words people don’t understand, whether it’s the nerdish stuff, whether it’s the Elvish, whether it’s the character going on about Dungeons and Dragons, whether it’s the Dominican Spanish, whether it’s the sort of high level graduate language, I assume if people don’t get it that this is not an attempt for the writer to be aggressive. This is an attempt for the writer to encourage the reader to build community, to go out and ask somebody else. For me, words that you can’t understand in a book aren’t there to torture or remind people that they don’t know. I always felt they were to remind people that part of the experience of reading has always been collective. You learn to read with someone else. Yeah you may currently practice it in a solitary fashion, but reading is a collective enterprise. And what the unintelligible in a book does is to remind you how our whole, lives we’ve always needed someone else to help us with reading.

We might laugh at the notion of plastic tea sets in the jungle, but it is a time-honored ritual for Western travelers to collect preindustrial artifacts to use as home decorations...Possession of primitive artifacts suggests worldly knowledge, just as in the highland communities of Borneo an electronic wristwatch that plays "Happy Birthday" is the mark of a great traveler. Funny thing how travel can narrow the mind.

I have a folder that’s labeled “The Folder of 24.” Inside it are letters from twenty-four people who were actively in the process of planning their suicide, but who stopped and got help—not because of what I wrote on my blog, but because of the amazing response from the community of people who read it and said, “Me too.” They were saved by the people who wrote about losing their mother or father or child to suicide and how they’d do anything to go back and convince them not to believe the lies mental illness tells you. They were saved by the people who offered up encouragement and songs and lyrics and poems and talismans and mantras that worked for them and that might work for a stranger in need. There are twenty-four people alive today who are still here because people were brave enough to talk about their struggles, or compassionate enough to convince others of their worth, or who simply said, “I don’t understand your illness, but I know that the world is better with you in it.

Yes, I hate blown glass art and I happen to live in the blown glass art capital of the world, Seattle, Washington. Being a part of the Seattle artistic community, I often get invited to galleries that are displaying the latest glass sculptures by some amazing new/old/mid-career glass blower. I never go. Abstract art leaves me feeling stupid and bored. Perhaps it’s because I grew up inside a tribal culture, on a reservation where every song and dance had specific ownership, specific meaning, and specific historical context. Moreover, every work of art had use—art as tool: art to heal; art to honor, art to grieve. I think of the Spanish word carnal, defined as, ‘Of the appetites and passions of the body.’ And I think of Gertrude Stein’s line, ‘Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.’ When asked what that line meant, Stein said, ‘The poet could use the name of the thing and the thing was really there.’ So when I say drum, the drum is really being pounded in this poem; when I say fancydancer, the fancydancer is really spinning inside this poem; when I say Indian singer, that singer is really wailing inside this poem. But when it comes to abstract art—when it comes to studying an organically shaped giant piece of multi-colored glass—I end up thinking, ‘That looks like my kidney. Anybody’s kidney, really. And frankly, there can be no kidney-shaped art more beautiful—more useful and closer to our Creator—than the kidney itself. And beyond that, this glass isn’t funny. There’s no wit here. An organic shape is not inherently artistic. It doesn’t change my mind about the world. It only exists to be admired. And, frankly, if I wanted to only be in admiration of an organic form, I’m going to watch beach volleyball. I’m always going to prefer the curve of a woman’s hip or a man’s shoulder to a piece of glass that has some curves.

I got some funny reactions, a lot of irate reactions, as if I were somehow taking people's fun away from them. I have nothing against sports. I like to watch a good basketball game and that sort of thing. On the other hand, we have to recognise that the mass hysteria about spectator sports plays a significant role. First of all, spectator sports make people more passive, because you're not doing them; you're watching somebody doing them. Secondly, they engender jingoist and chauvinist attitudes, sometimes to quite an extreme degree. I saw something in the newspapers just a day or two ago about how high-school teams are now so antagonistic and passionately committed to winning at all costs that they had to abandon the standard handshake before or after the game. These kids can't even do civil things like greeting one another because they're ready to kill one another. It's spectator sports that engender those attitudes, particularly when they're designed to organise a community to be hysterically committed to their gladiators. That's very dangerous, and it has lots of deleterious effects.

Finally, we entered Chetaube County, my imaginary birthplace, where the names of the little winding roads and minuscule mountain communities never failed to inspire me: Yardscrabble, Big Log, Upper, Middle and Lower Pigsty, Chicken Scratch, Cooterville, Felchville, Dust Rag, Dough Bag, Uranus Ridge, Big Bottom, Hooter Holler, Quickskillet, Buck Wallow, Possum Strut ... We always say a picture speaks a thousand words, but isn’t the opposite equally true?

New Rule: You don't have to teach both sides of a debate if one side is a load of crap. President Bush recently suggested that public schools should teach "intelligent design" alongside the theory of evolution, because after all, evolution is "just a theory." Then the president renewed his vow to "drive the terrorists straight over the edge of the earth." Here's what I don't get: President Bush is a brilliant scientist. He's the man who proved you could mix two parts booze with one part cocaine and still fly a jet fighter. And yet he just can't seem to accept that we descended from apes. It seems pathetic to be so insecure about your biological superiority to a group of feces-flinging, rouge-buttocked monkeys that you have to make up fairy tales like "We came from Adam and Eve," and then cover stories for Adam and Eve, like intelligent design! Yeah, leaving the earth in the hands of two naked teenagers, that's a real intelligent design. I'm sorry, folks, but it may very well be that life is just a series of random events, and that there is no master plan--but enough about Iraq. There aren't necessarily two sides to every issue. If there were, the Republicans would have an opposition party. And an opposition party would point out that even though there's a debate in schools and government about this, there is no debate among scientists. Evolution is supported by the entire scientific community. Intelligent design is supported by the guys on line to see The Dukes of Hazzard. And the reason there is no real debate is that intelligent design isn't real science. It's the equivalent of saying that the Thermos keeps hot things hot and cold things cold because it's a god. It's so willfully ignorant you might as well worship the U.S. mail. "It came again! Praise Jesus!" Stupidity isn't a form of knowing things. Thunder is high-pressure air meeting low-pressure air--it's not God bowling. "Babies come from storks" is not a competing school of throught in medical school. We shouldn't teach both. The media shouldn't equate both. If Thomas Jefferson knew we were blurring the line this much between Church and State, he would turn over in his slave. As for me, I believe in evolution and intelligent design. I think God designed us in his image, but I also think God is a monkey.

She smiled at me with those brilliant sparkling eyes, the kind that draw you in, that take part of your soul. Her lips twitched halfway, egging me on to kiss her and complete the smile. The smile was completed. We did not leave that parking lot for a while.

New Rule: Death isn’t always sad. This week, the Reverend Jerry Falwell died, and millions of Americans asked, “Why? Why, God? Why…didn’t you take Pat Robertson with him?” I don’t want to say Jerry was disliked by the gay community, but tonight in New York City, at exactly eight o’clock, Broadway theaters along the Great White Way turned their lights up for two minutes. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I think we can make an exception, because speaking ill of the dead was kind of Jerry Falwell’s hobby. He’s the guy who said AIDS was God’s punishment for homosexuality and that 9/11 was brought on by pagans, abortionists, feminists, gays, and the ACLU—or, as I like to call them, my studio audience. It was surreal watching people on the news praise Falwell, followed by a clip package of what he actually said—things like: "Homosexuals are part of a vile and satanic system that will be utterly annihilated." "If you’re not a born-again Christian, you’re a failure as a human being." "Feminists just need a man in the house." "There is no separation of church and state." And, of course, everyone’s favorite: "The purple Teletubby is gay." Jerry Falwell found out you could launder your hate through the cover of “God’s will”—he didn’t hate gays, God does. All Falwell’s power came from name-dropping God, and gay people should steal that trick. Don’t say you want something because it’s your right as a human being—say you want it because it’s your religion. Gay men have been going at things backward. Forget civil right, and just make gayness a religion. I mean, you’re kneeling anyway. And it’s easy to start a religion. Watch, I’ll do it for you. I had a vision last night. The Blessed Virgin Mary came to me—I don’t know how she got past the guards—and she told me it’s time to take the high ground from the Seventh-day Adventists and give it to the twenty-four-hour party people. And that what happens in the confessional stays in the confessional. Gay men, don’t say you’re life partners. Say you’re a nunnery of two. “We weren’t having sex,officer. I was performing a very private mass.Here in my car. I was letting my rod and my staff comfort him.” One can only hope that as Jerry Falwell now approaches the pearly gates, he is met there by God Himself, wearing a Fire Island muscle shirt and nut-hugger shorts, saying to Jerry in a mighty lisp, “I’m not talking to you.

In one of his puckish moods Saul talked the president of a university into letting him anonymously take an examination being administered to candidates for a doctorate in community organization. "Three of the questions were on the philosophy of and motivations of Saul Alinsky," writes Saul. "I answered two of them incorrectly.

I think it would serve everyone as a community if the flight attendants were able to whack one person (per flight) on the head with a piñata stick for being the stupidest damn person on the plane. It wouldn’t hurt them permanently but if it happened to them more than once they’d probably get the picture because HOW ELSE ARE THEY GOING TO LEARN? This would also be helpful because I

It means so much to me," I say, voice already hoarse. I tear my haze from him and sweep it over the audience. "To be a part of a community like this. To me, libraries have always represented the best of humanity. The way we all share knowledge and space, and... and how we find ways to look after each other. It's not a perfect system, but it's powerful. I know there are a lot of places you could be on a Saturday night." "There aren't words for how special this is. That you've shown up for the kids, and Waning Bay, and me." I let myself look at Miles, just for an instant. "It matters. So much.

Instead the only place I got into was the local community college, where I live in a suite in what's not-so-jokingly referred to as the Virgin Vault, with a practicing witch, a klepto, and a girl whose family's religion doesn't allow her to speak to men outside of their faith. I keep assuring Mom it's cool. Another one of our suite mates came out last semester as a lesbian (to the surprise of none of us but herself), and a fifth is sleeping with a guy who's in an actual motorcycle gang. "See, Mom?" I'd told her. "Way better than Harvard. There's so much more diversity!" Like so much of my jokes, she didn't find that one funny.

I realise something. My ‘fuck it, I just want to get smashed’ moments are usually about boredom and pleasure-seeking. When I get drunk, it’s a choice. For so many others, it’s about obliteration — a way to block out the pain. Yet, despite the tragic circumstances that cause already vulnerable people to seek solace in a bottle or through a needle, as a community we still treat addiction as if it’s a character failing. How often do we turn our heads as we judge the unpleasant-smelling man staggering through the train carriage? It’s funny how we view public drunkenness as socially unpalatable if it’s an old man drinking Scotch from a brown paper bag, but it’s a bit of fun if it’s a group of young women causing a commotion on a hen’s night. It makes me wish, once again, that I’d shown more compassion to my granddad. I was young, but I still judged him.

I was sitting down hanging with the fellas them just for the girls, because really and truly this was bugging me. How could these fellas have the finest girls in the community, and they don’t work, they don’t have any money. Anytime something has to be purchased they would say, ‘Man, Scrooge, throw the blow; buy this and buy that.’ So we were sitting on a car one day. They were out to a disco the night before and this fella got chopped or stabbed. I didn’t know anything about it until the fellas came around looking for KC the next day. These fellas just yuck out their guns and started busting shots, and everybody just break off running for their lives. Afterwards I mumbled to myself that these are some crazy fellas. They just came shooting for no reason. The funny thing about it is this: guns were not even that common on the streets then. We’re talking around 1987, 1988. I believe the fella who fired those shots at us, goes by the nickname Dog and he lives in the US now. I said to Ada, ‘What kind of thing this is? I mean, these fellas came and just started shooting.’ That sent a whole new way of thinking in my mind. Prior to that, I was just a person going to work, coming home, and chilling. I just happened to be sitting there one day. They didn’t know me and they didn’t care who I was. I never used to even be with KC and them. I just happened to be there that day. If I had known that those fellas were crazy like that, to come shooting at whoever they saw, I wouldn’t have been there hanging with KC and them. After that, my whole mindset changed. It was either shoot or be shot. Scrooge, former leader of the Rebellion Raiders street gang that once boasted of having some ten thousand members.

I met with a group of a hundred or so fifth graders from a poor neighborhood at a school in Houston, Texas. Most of them were on a track that would never get them to college. So I decided then and there to make a contract with them. I would pay for their four-year college education if they kept a B average and stayed out of trouble. I made it clear that with focus, anyone could be above average, and I would provide mentoring support to them. I had a couple of key criteria: They had to stay out of jail. They couldn't get pregnant before graduating high school. Most importantly, they needed to contribute 20 hours of service per year to some organization in their community. Why did I add this? College is wonderful, but what was even more important to me was to teach them they had something to give, not just something to get in life. I had no idea how I was going to pay for it in the long run, but I was completely committed, and I signed a legally binding contract requiring me to deliver the funds. It's funny how motivating it can be when you have no choice but to move forward. I always say, if you want to take the island, you have to burn your boats! So I signed those contracts. Twenty-three of those kids worked with me from the fifth grade all the way to college. Several went on to graduate school, including law school! I call them my champions. Today they are social workers, business owners, and parents. Just a few years ago, we had a reunion, and I got to hear the magnificent stories of how early-in-life giving to others had become a lifelong pattern. How it caused them to believe they had real worth in life. How it gave them such joy to give, and how many of them now are teaching this to their own children.

He found it funny that his socialist friends did not actually want to live in such places either. “I realized that socialism is not a political proposal, not an economic plan. Socialism is the residue of Judeo-Christian faith, without religion. It is a belief in community, the goodness of the human race and paradise on earth.

I could read it so you don’t have to?” she offers, but I’m already halfway through. I start to read aloud. “ ‘I had this vision for creating a platform that would help people to connect and coalesce around the things that mattered most to them. It was a natural extension of what I’d been doing for years. People used to call me a humanist spirit guide—I guess that’s what I’m bringing to WAI now, just on a larger stage.’ “He doesn’t even mention us. Doesn’t say anything about how Jules and I dragged him kicking and screaming into this. I wanted to create a platform. Cyrus just wanted to baptize cats.” “To be fair, the Cat Baptism is one of the most shared rituals,” Destiny says, trying to lighten the tone. “Eight hundred thousand videos and counting.” I keep going. “ ‘I’m attracted to the solitary life, Jones says. You can imagine him in a monastery, although he’d have to cut off that halo around his head. In addition to creating a social network that millions of people are turning to for meaning and community, he is also taking care of his employees—he has just kicked off a mentorship program to give the women on his team the support they need to thrive in their roles.’ ” Destiny tells me to stop reading. “It’s just bullshit.” I take a shaky deep breath. “That’s my mentorship program,” I whisper. “Cyrus is telling them what he wants to hear. You and I both know that.” I’m stammering now, but I keep going. “ ‘He’s otherworldly but handsome in an almost comical way. His sentences are long, and when you’re in the middle of one, you wonder, where is this going? But he always manages to bring whatever he’s saying to a satisfying conclusion. Everything he says is mysterious and somehow obvious at the same time.’ ” At least this one is funny. I allow Destiny to laugh briefly. I get to the last line. “ ‘I have to say, I’m developing something of a crush.’ ” “Oh, for God’s sake, another woman in love with Cyrus. Take a number, sister.” Destiny leans over, reads the byline. “George Milos. Guess Cyrus appeals to all genders.” As we get up to leave, she says, “I don’t think Cyrus is a bad person. He’s just basking in a sea of adoration, and it makes him think more of himself than he should.” “Where does that leave me?” “You have a tough gig. No one wants to be married to the guy everyone thinks is going to save the world.

Your comedy is trained by your friend’s sense of humor.

A colleague once asked me about community supported agriculture (CSA). When I explained how it worked—driving to the farm weekly to pick up my produce—she responded, 'Well, that’s fine for you, but what about the rest of us?' It’s funny how perception works, because in my eyes, I am 'the rest of us.

God always wants us to see things from heaven's prospective. You may not be doing much to your community but what you are is so important. You are significant.

I had no male friends now, though I did have a strong community of intelligent, supportive, funny women and I felt confused as to why they weren't enough for me,

The Adopted Baby A young married couple learned early on they could not have children naturally so they decided to adopt. They had to go through quite a lengthy process, but one day they received great news.  Their adoption had gone through and they were to get a baby boy.  The young couple was overjoyed. A few days later they stopped by a community college and enrolled in a Japanese language night class. The clerk that registered the couple was curious and asked, “I’m just wondering why you want to study Japanese?” “Well, we just adopted a Japanese baby,” the father said, “and when he gets old enough to talk we want to be able to understand him.

Education was still considered a privilege in England. At Oxford you took responsibility for your efforts and for your performance. No one coddled, and no one uproariously encouraged. British respect for the individual, both learner and teacher, reigned. If you wanted to learn, you applied yourself and did it. Grades were posted publicly by your name after exams. People failed regularly. These realities never ceased to bewilder those used to “democracy” without any of the responsibility. For me, however, my expectations were rattled in another way. I arrived anticipating to be snubbed by a culture of privilege, but when looked at from a British angle, I actually found North American students owned a far greater sense of entitlement when it came to a college education. I did not realize just how much expectations fetter—these “mind-forged manacles,”2 as Blake wrote. Oxford upholds something larger than self as a reference point, embedded in the deep respect for all that a community of learning entails. At my very first tutorial, for instance, an American student entered wearing a baseball cap on backward. The professor quietly asked him to remove it. The student froze, stunned. In the United States such a request would be fodder for a laundry list of wrongs done against the student, followed by threatening the teacher’s job and suing the university. But Oxford sits unruffled: if you don’t like it, you can simply leave. A handy formula since, of course, no one wants to leave. “No caps in my classroom,” the professor repeated, adding, “Men and women have died for your education.” Instead of being disgruntled, the student nodded thoughtfully as he removed his hat and joined us. With its expanses of beautiful architecture, quads (or walled lawns) spilling into lush gardens, mist rising from rivers, cows lowing in meadows, spires reaching high into skies, Oxford remained unapologetically absolute. And did I mention? Practically every college within the university has its own pub. Pubs, as I came to learn, represented far more for the Brits than merely a place where alcohol was served. They were important gathering places, overflowing with good conversation over comforting food: vital humming hubs of community in communication. So faced with a thousand-year-old institution, I learned to pick my battles. Rather than resist, for instance, the archaic book-ordering system in the Bodleian Library with technological mortification, I discovered the treasure in embracing its seeming quirkiness. Often, when the wrong book came up from the annals after my order, I found it to be right in some way after all. Oxford often works such. After one particularly serendipitous day of research, I asked Robert, the usual morning porter on duty at the Bodleian Library, about the lack of any kind of sophisticated security system, especially in one of the world’s most famous libraries. The Bodleian was not a loaning library, though you were allowed to work freely amid priceless artifacts. Individual college libraries entrusted you to simply sign a book out and then return it when you were done. “It’s funny; Americans ask me about that all the time,” Robert said as he stirred his tea. “But then again, they’re not used to having u in honour,” he said with a shrug.

11. No clerics. What would you think about a religion with no clergy? We here at SoulBoom are all for it. One of the miracles of the Twelve-Step Recovery Program at AA is the lack of leadership roles. The inmates are running the asylum! Elected servant-leaders run the meetings for limited terms while following the adage “principles above personalities.” As expertly quoted in the Twelve Traditions of the AA Big Book, “For our group purpose, there is but one ultimate authority—a loving God as He may express Himself in our group conscience. Our leaders are but trusted servants; they do not govern.” What if modern religion was like that? (Or politics, for that matter!) Leaders as trusted servants. We no longer need people with funny hats (whose only historical “expertise” was knowing how to read when most of the population didn’t) to interpret the holy writings for us. What if no member of this faith had more power or authority than any other member? What if, like at an AA meeting, there were regular, democratic elections, where a rotating staff of elected folks helped to serve the needs of the community… and nothing else?

Then in March 1993, everything changed. My one-year-old son, Charlie, had his first seizure. There’s absolutely nothing funny about being the parent of a child with uncontrolled epilepsy. Nothing. After a year of daily seizures, drugs, and a brain surgery, I learned that the cure for Charlie’s epilepsy, the ketogenic diet—a high fat, no sugar, limited protein diet—had been hiding in plain sight for, by then, over seventy years. And despite the diet’s being well documented in medical texts, none of the half-dozen pediatric neurologists we had taken Charlie to see had mentioned a word about it. I found out on my own at a medical library. It was life altering—not just for Charlie and my family, but for tens of thousands like us. Turns out there are powerful forces at work within our health care system that don’t necessarily prioritize good health. For decades, physicians have barely been taught diet therapy or even nutrition in medical school. The pharmaceutical, medical device, and sugar industries make hundreds of billions every year on anti-epileptic drugs and processed foods—but not a nickel if we change what we eat. The cardiology community and American Heart Association demonize fat based on flawed science. Hospitals profit from tests and procedures, but again no money from diet therapy. There is a world epilepsy population of over sixty million people. Most of those people begin having their seizures as children, and only a minuscule percentage ever find out about ketogenic diet therapies. When I realized that 99 percent of what had happened to Charlie and my family was unnecessary, and that there were millions of families worldwide in the same situation, I needed to try to do something. Nancy and I began the Charlie Foundation (charliefoundation.org) in 1994 in order to facilitate research and get the word directly to those who would benefit. Among the high points were countless articles, a couple appearances of Charlie’s story on Dateline NBC, and a movie I produced and directed about another family whose child’s epilepsy had been cured by the ketogenic diet starring Meryl Streep titled First Do No Harm (1997). Today, of course, the diet permeates social media. When we started, there was one hospital in the world offering ketogenic diet therapy. Today, there are 250. Equally important, word about the efficacy of the ketogenic diet for epilepsy spread within the scientific community. In 1995, we hosted the first of many scientific global symposia focused on the diet. As research into its mechanisms and applications has spiked, incredibly the professional communities have found the same metabolic pathway that is triggered by the ketogenic diet to reduce seizures has also been found to benefit Alzheimer’s disease, ALS, severe psychiatric disorders, traumatic brain injury, and even some cancers. I

That was the thing about restorative justice. It allowed you to hold two things in your head at the same time -- that butt-slapping was funny, and also that it wasn't. That asking permissions to touch somebody was funny, but that you really didn't want to be touched by somebody who didn't ask. That the girls wanted Jeff to dial back the ass-smacking thing, but they still like joking around with him. That the whole thing wasn't a big deal, and that it kinds of was. That was what community was. All those layers of understanding.

But then the room became sullen, like a community member meeting for sheep that are hearing a ruling about to be declared and are asked to speak now or forever hold their fleece.

Queer contagion, including the anxiety triggered by gender nonnormativity, found its viral materiality in the early 1980s. The diagnosis of gay cancer, or GRID (gay-related immune disorder), the original name for AIDS, was a vengeful nomenclature for the perversion of existing in a world held together, at least in part, by trans/queer undoing. Found by chance, queers began showing symptoms of unexplainable illnesses such as Kaposi's sarcoma (KS) and Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia (PCP). Unresponsive to the most aggressive treatments, otherwise healthy, often well-resourced and white, young men were deteriorating and dying with genocidal speed. Without remedy, normative culture celebrated its triumph in knowing the tragic ends they always imagined queers would meet. This, while the deaths of Black, Brown, and Indigenous trans and cis women (queer or otherwise) were unthought beyond the communities directly around them. These women, along with many others, were stripped of any claim to tragedy under the conditions of trans/misogyny. Among the architects of this silence was then-President Ronald Reagan, who infamously refused to mention HIV/AIDS in public until 1986. By then, at least 16,000 had died in the U.S. alone. Collective fantasies of mass disappearance through the pulsing death of trans/queer people, Haitians, and drug users - the wish fulfillment of a nightmare world concertized the rhetoric that had always been spoken from the lips of power. The true terror of this response to HIV/AIDS was not only its methodological denial but its joyful humor. In Scott Calonico's experimental short film, "When AIDS Was Funny", a voice-over of Reagan's press secretary Larry Speakes is accompanied by iconic still images of people close to death in hospital beds. LESTER KINSOLVING: "Over a third of them have died. It's known as a 'gay plague.' [Press pool laughter.] No, it is. It's a pretty serious thing. One in every three people that get this have died. And I wonder if the president was aware of this." LARRY SPEAKES: "I don't have it. [Press pool laughter.] Do you?" LESTER KINSOLVING: "You don't have it? Well, I'm relieved to hear that, Larry!" [Press pool laughter.] LARRY SPEAKES: "Do you?" LESTER KINSOLVING: "No, I don't.

You know what’s funny about black women?” Blue asked gently. “What’s that?” “They’re the only women in the world that you have to talk into letting you protect them.” “Maybe we’ve just forgotten how.” “Exactly,” he said. “And that’s why I’m here.” “Why?” “To help you remember.” The idea of protection is so central to everything that goes on between men and women, even when we don’t admit it. Probably especially when we don’t admit it. Blue’s decision to take matters into his own hands and create a safe environment for people to live their normal, ordinary, everyday lives seemed so extraordinary in the face of the chaos we routinely accept as a community that I didn’t quite know what to say. His unequivocal acceptance of the traditional male role appealed to me on a truly visceral level, but did that mean I had to become a more traditional female to balance things out? My mind was already on overload, but I thought I understood something I hadn’t before. Something personal. “Is that why you stopped singing?” He smiled. “I didn’t stop singing. I stopped recording.” The distinction was, I’m sure, crucial to a singer the same way a writer will always separate the act of writing from the choice to publish. “Is that why you stopped recording?” “That’s part of it.” “What’s the other part?” “The other part is a conversation for another day,” he said, standing up and buttoning his coat. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” “No problem,” I said, walking him to the door. “But what did you come over here to tell me?” “Whatever you wanted to know,” he said, turning to face me. The truth sounds funny sometimes when you just say it right out. “I see.” “So how’d I do?” I opened the door and looked right into his eyes. “So far, so good.

In a research study called “How today’s fastest growing B2B businesses found their first ten customers,” startup veteran Lenny Rachitsky interviewed early members of teams from Slack, Stripe, Figma, and Asana. In studying how these earliest companies found their first customers, it was concluded that a significant number came from the founders tapping their personal networks: Only three sourcing strategies account for every B2B company’s very early growth. [These are: Personal network, Seek out customers where they are, Get press.] Thus, your choices are easy, yet limited. Almost every B2B business both hits up their personal network and heads to the places their potential customers were spending time. The question isn’t which of these two routes to pursue, but instead how far your own network will take you before you move on. It’s a huge advantage to have a strong personal network in B2B, which you can also build by bringing a connector investor or joining an incubator such as YC. Getting press is rarely the way to get started.44 Just as Uber’s ops hustle worked for solving the city-by-city Cold Start Problem, B2B startups have an equivalent card to play: they can manually reach out and onboard teams from their friends’ startups, building atomic networks quickly, as Slack did in their early launch. Or, many productivity products begin by launching within online communities—like Twitter, Hacker News, and Product Hunt—where dense pockets of early adopters are willing to try new products. In recent years, B2B products have started to emphasize memes, funny videos, invite-only mechanics, and other tactics traditionally associated with consumer startups. I expect that this will only continue, as the consumerization of enterprise products fully embraces meme-based go-to-market early on, instead of leading with direct sales.

Sienna woke up to the sound of panic coming from Paige’s side of the room. “Shit. What the….Why am I? Oh my God.” Paige said, sounding like she was on the verge of tears before running out of the room. Sienna began laughing uncontrollably. It had taken a full week of patiently waiting for this moment and she was glad she was around to witness it. She knew exactly what had just happened and all she needed was a bag of popcorn to make the moment an even more entertaining show. She grabbed her shower caddy and made her way to the showers for a casual stroll. She’d pretend she was in for a shower and catch the show live and in person. Payback really was a bitch. Upon walking into the community showers, the echoing sounds of Paige’s whimpers led Sienna right to her. Sienna walked around with her caddy, with a smile on her face and eventually was within sight of Paige. Her athletically toned body was red from the scorching hot water hitting her body. She scratched like a dog with fleas. “Aw, what’s wrong? Feeling a bit...itchy? Soap and water work miracles. Is it crabs? Maybe you’re allergic to yourself. I mean it wouldn’t surprise me if your own body was trying to get away from you.” Sienna said, holding back the urge to laugh hysterically. “Shut up, Sienna! This isn’t funny.” Paige whimpered, continuing to scratch. “It can’t be that bad.” Sienna smirked. “You know there’s probably a cream for that itch.” “I know you’re totally getting off on watching me naked, Arkansas. You didn’t have to go to these extremes to do it.” Paige said, clearly pretending she was stronger than her itch. “Wow! You’re more delusional than I thought you were. Listen, I'm a nice person and I won't spread any rumors about you and your....Uncontrollable urge to scratch but if you mess with me again, I promise next time I won't be so nice. Oh and by the way I'm not a fan of slumber parties so find somewhere else to hook up with your little girlfriends.” Sienna said, blowing a kiss at Paige while walking away. Sienna walked out of the showers proud of herself and listened one last time as Paige screamed from the combination of anger and itching.

But… the world needs to know about this! The world needs to know the truth!” I shook my head. “No, Myron, it doesn’t. In fact, that would be the worst thing for mankind right now.” “Don’t give me that. Humanity couldn’t handle it bullshit—” “I’m not. It’s not about that at all.” “So what, then?” I turned in my seat so I was facing him. “Myron, you’ve spent who knows how long obsessed with UFOs and Roswell, Area 51, conspiracy theories, abductions, that sort of stuff. And yes, you now know that a lot of it is true, although not in the ways you think it is.” I leaned forward. “The truth, and the threat, isn’t down there,” I said, pointing at the Arabian peninsula, which was now sliding beneath us. I turned my finger and pointed up. “It’s out there. The Men in Black aren’t your enemy, if they even exist at all, that is. The biggest threat to mankind are vicious, amoral alien assholes who would exploit the shit out of Earth if it ever lost the ignorance that’s protecting it.” “Ignorance? A protection?” I nodded. “There’s a community of peoples out there that put a lot of effort into protecting places like Earth, until they’re ready to take their first real steps into space. And I don’t mean sending a few guys to go futz around on the Moon. I mean serious, deep space travel. The organization I’m part of, the Peacemaker Guild, is part of that protection. But mankind’s ignorance of the truth is the far more important one. Once that’s gone, all bets are off.” I leaned forward even more, pressing my gaze into Myron’s. “Imagine the worst thing you can. Now, try and imagine something worse than that. That still doesn’t even come close to the true horror out there. Now, it’s not just horror, of course. There are lots of good things, wonderful things. But it’s the horror that keeps me awake at night.” “What Van is saying is that, if you managed to convince humanity of the truth, it would pretty much be the end of the line for Earth,” Perry put in. Myron sank back and shook his head. “So you mean that we now really do know the truth, and we can’t share it with anyone?” I leaned back and smiled at him. “Congratulations, Myron. You thought there was a conspiracy, and you were right—and now you’re part of it. Ain’t life a funny thing?

Reading a SoHo restaurant review in the New York Times for me is like reading Fifty Shades of Gravy. By the end of it, you're drooling and fully turned on for more. - (done) It wasn’t always pretty in SoHo. When the moon clocked in for its night shift, the homeless community got cozy with their couture cardboard beds sprawled across the cobblestone catwalk.

It wasn’t always pretty in SoHo. When the moon clocked in for its night shift, the homeless community got cozy with their couture cardboard beds sprawled across the cobblestone catwalk.

I was very responsible, and very mature. Travis says otherwise, but he’s not important right now. We’re focused on me.

The mind forgets,” he told me, “but the body doesn’t.

Murder is the one thing the police are guaranteed to look into. And if it ties back to us, to me, then we’re sunk. So no murder. We conduct business fairly. We’re gentlemen.

I was very responsible, and very mature. Travis says otherwise, but he’s not important right now. We’re focused on me.

I chose to do this not because it is easy, but because it is hard. Because this challenge is one I am willing to accept, unwilling to postpone, and one that I will face, and do so with success, so no one else has to.

Well, between the money you’re makin’ and whatever your mum has saved up, I’m sure I can convince him to help out. He likes helping people Steve, you know that.” I shook my head and stood up. “He likes grooming prize dogs Becs, not feeding strays.

Don’t take too much from her. We’re criminals, not bad people.

Look, the old lady’s going to allow you in her house, hmmm? You think she’ll remember if a few groceries she bought are missing the next day? Hell, she probably won’t even remember buying them by the time she returns home.

It has been said that I write with some of the best reasoning to ever grace the all-encompassing page that is mankind. Who said that, you ask? I did, of course.

Hell has different meanings for us all. For those non-religious types, Hell exists inside of us or all around us or some shit like that. For others, it depends on their previous experiences. For some, a hard math test may be Hell. For others, a shootout may not meet the standards. So really, Hell is a broad spectrum of personal bias. Either way you cut it, if this was Hell breaking loose, it was pretty tame.

This is the part where we should have exchanged glances (from what I had gathered from my limited literature recollection, it added dramatic flair), but I was too intrigued by the staircase, and where it led, to look anywhere else.

First time fucking driving and I fucking crash,” I muttered. "Good thing is, it’s a minor dent,” piped the helpful back seat, “Mum probably won’t even notice it, her eyes as they are and all.” “Thanks man. Makes me feel good about myself, taking advantage of your blind mom.

Seriously man, shut it.” “Alright, alright. You’re the driver,” He raised his chip bag in toast, “My life is in your hands.

Jay?” I was shaken out of my memory. I think my dignified response went something like “Mmfh?

Seatbelts?” I said. She clicked hers in. “Yes, old man.” “Hey, safety first.

Why would we even come here?” his mouth asked from his knees. “Because,” I spread my arms wide, “adventure.” He shook his head at me. “You were always so dramatic.” “I prefer grand. Now come on!

Let’s just pause there for a moment. Ever seen a movie where everything moves in slow motion during an action scene? As if, for the character, it actually feels that way? Gives them time to think, to act, to look cool. Take my situation, take what I just told you, and the exact opposite is true. It moved really fast. I did not think. I probably didn’t look very cool.

Marg muttered something under her breath. It was either “Who does he think he is?” or “I hope he has no kids.” Weird that I’d mix the two of those up. You’re right. It was probably the sec…first one. First one.

He turned to me. “All he needs is you buddy.” I nodded, steeling myself. “Sometimes what you need is not what you should want.” A lopsided grin was my response. “You can philosophize, or you can come with me.

You know, it’s crazy what a little perspective can do to your life. For example…cotton candy is not as great as everyone makes it out to be. It’s better.

I was so caught up in my thoughts I did not notice the wire till I got caught up in it. Right. Of course. Tomato patch. Those poor fruits. Or vegetables. Those poor fruitables. Those poor veguits. I have too much time on my hands.

The Council requests your presence.” “Well I require breakfast.

A guy can only walk the same hallway so many times. Besides, they were all dead when I did it anyways. No pain. Just fun.” “You’re sick.” “Sickness is contagious. Be sure to cover your mouth, or else you might catch it.

Where’s your friend?” “Jerry hasss nooo, er, ahem,” he cleared his throat. “Jerry has no friends. Just me.

It is quite beautiful, that level of death, although to some it could be considered nightmarish. Whatda see old pal? Do you see death? Is he waiting at your doorstep for you and ya kin? Does he carrya scythe? Is he hooded like the healers? Or are you fortunate enough to gaze upon his face? Do you see an old, wrinkled man there? Eyes the only thing darker than his skin, with his hair in stark contrast? You kow what they say, black isn’t a colour, but a shade. Void of all colour, just like my pal there is void of all life. Or do you see a young man hell bent on revenge, trying to bring a loved one back from the grave? Trying so hard he will put every living soul in the ground to lift his love out of it? Is he pissed off that he can grant death, but the one thing he wants, life, is out of his grasp? Does he speak to you at night? When you sleep, with all the lights out, does he glide silently to your bedside and touch you? Does it hurt? Or do you not feel anything, just close your eyes and never open them again? Do you fear death, Steven?

Ah yes, of course, Spiders. Is it their size? Do you fear the ones you cannot see, dunnot sense until they bite you and you die a horrible, painful death? Or would you prefer a giant, fist-sized one? One that towers above buildings like in an old shit-show production? I quite think you would. Now personally, one of my least favourite thing about spiders is their fangs. You see, their fangs are a mixture of rat’s fur and small dragon teeth. They manage to be sharp, deadly, and disgustingly hairy. Oh, and the colour of death. It makes me shiver just to think about those pincers closing in on a nice, fleshy, alive part of my body. I do think I’d be forced to amputate or decapitate. Possibly both.” "Anywhore, their fangs aren’t what get most people. It’s their eyes. Kinda creepy, don’t ya think? We have two, they have….well, too many ov’em. Would you like to see yourself reflected umpteenth times in a spider’s trippily reflective little eyes? Right before they smile and their fangs grab ya that is. No? I should hope not. You also have the venom and that shifty way they move to consider. Venom can kill anything, no matter how tough or large they are. And the whole eight legs shuffly shifty quicky thing just spooks the shit outta me mate. Death and spiders. They’re pretty much the same thing to some. Some being me, of course. Then again, I’m quite normal.

Ah yes, of course, Spiders. Is it their size? Do you fear the ones you cannot see, dunnot sense until they bite you and you die a horrible, painful death? Or would you prefer a giant, fist-sized one? One that towers above buildings like in an old shit-show production? I quite think you would. Now personally, one of my least favourite thing about spiders is their fangs. You see, their fangs are a mixture of rat’s fur and small dragon teeth. They manage to be sharp, deadly, and disgustingly hairy. Oh, and the colour of death. It makes me shiver just to think about those pincers closing in on a nice, fleshy, alive part of my body. I do think I’d be forced to amputate or decapitate. Possibly both. Anywhore, their fangs aren’t what get most people. It’s their eyes. Kinda creepy, don’t ya think? We have two, they have….well, too many ov’em. Would you like to see yourself reflected umpteenth times in a spider’s trippily reflective little eyes? Right before they smile and their fangs grab ya that is. No? I should hope not. You also have the venom and that shifty way they move to consider. Venom can kill anything, no matter how tough or large they are. And the whole eight legs shuffly shifty quicky thing just spooks the shit outta me mate. Death and spiders. They’re pretty much the same thing to some. Some being me, of course. Then again, I’m quite normal.

It is quite effective what they’ve done to the boundary though, isn’t it? S’pose you see a pack of wolves too, don’t ya? Pure white, whiter than the snow, teeth whiter. Blood dripping from their fangs, eyes just as red. Their eyes mini volcanoes of an unquenched thirst ready to erupt underneath the surface. Perhaps even a full moon in the background, and a werewolf transforming nearby. All of them united in their quest, their desire, their utter passion to rip ya throat out.

Introducing Team Spectrum As I noted in the previous chapter, the autism community is really strapped for heroic representation, at least on the comic book superhero front. I wish to rectify this. Introducing ... Before I go any further, I want to make it clear that I’m not going on some diatribe about how technology is the devil and it’s

Public libraries are for all citizens in their communities. It's written in the American Library Association's Bill of Rights: 'Libraries should provide materials and information presenting to all points of view on current and historical issues. Materials should not be proscribed or removed because of partisan or doctrinal disapproval.

Brock毕业证咨询办理《Q微2026614433》购买Brock毕业证修改Brock成绩单加拿大购买布鲁克大学毕业证办理高仿学位布鲁克大学毕业证成绩单认证出国留学无法毕业买毕业证留学被劝退买毕业证（无法毕业教育部认证咨询） Brock University nmmnSMNSSVBSVSBNSVBN "The mind-frying hilarity of Anthony Veasna So's first book of fiction settles him as the genius of social satire our age needs now more than ever. Few writers can handle firm plot action and wrenching pathos in such elegant prose. This unforgettable new voice is at once poetic and laugh-out-loud funny. These characters kept talking to me long after I closed the book I'm destined to read again and cannot wait to teach. Anthony Veasna So is a shiny new star in literature's firmament and Afterparties his first classic."--Mary Karr, author of Lit: A Memoir Afterparties weaves through a Cambodian-American community in the shadow of genocide, following the children of refugees as they grapple with the complexities of masculinity, class, and family. Anthony Veasna So explores the lives of these unforgettable characters with bracing humor and startling tenderness. A stunning collection from an exciting new voice.--Brit Bennett, author of The Vanishing Half

We have all heard the sceptics who warn that serious action to fight climate change and energy scarcity will lead us into decades of hardship and sacrifice. When it comes to cities, they are absolutely wrong. In fact, sustainability and the good life can be by-products of the very same interventions. Alex Boston, the Golder planner who advises dozens of cities on climate and energy, doesn’t even ask civic leaders about their greenhouse gas reduction aspirations when they first start talking. ‘We ask, “What are your core community priorities?”’ says Boston. ‘People don’t talk about climate change. They say they want economic development, livability, mobility, housing affordability, taxes, all stuff that relates to happiness.’ These are just the concerns that have caused us to delay action on climate change. But Boston insists that by focusing on the relationship between energy, efficiency and the things that make life better, cities can succeed where scary data, scientists, logic and conscience have failed. The happy city plan is an energy plan. It is a climate plan. It is a belt-tightening plan for cash-strapped cities. It is also an economic plan, a jobs plan and a corrective for weak systems. It is a plan for resilience. THE GREEN SURPRISE Consider the by-product of the happy city project in Bogotá. Enrique Peñalosa told me that he did not feel the urgency of the global environmental crisis when he was elected mayor. His urban transformation was not motivated by a concern for spotted owls or melting glaciers or soon-to-be-flooded residents of villages on some distant coral atoll. Still, a funny thing happened near the end of his term. After making Bogotá easier, cleaner, more beautiful and more fair, the mayor and his city started winning accolades from environmental organizations. In 2000 Peñalosa and Eric Britton were called to Sweden to accept the Stockholm Challenge Award for the Environment, for pulling 850,000 vehicles off the street during the world’s biggest car-free day. Then the TransMilenio bus system was lauded for producing massive reductions in Bogotá’s carbon dioxide emissions.fn1, 3 It was the first transport system to be accredited under the UN’s Clean Development Mechanism – meaning that Bogotá could actually sell carbon credits to polluters in rich countries. For its public space transformations under mayors Peñalosa, Antanas Mockus and their successor, Luis Garzón, the city won the Golden Lion prize from the prestigious Venice Architecture Biennale. For its bicycle routes, its new parks, its Ciclovía, its upside-down roads and that hugely popular car-free day, Bogotá was held up as a shining example of green urbanism. Not one of its programmes was directed at the crisis of climate change, but the city offered tangible proof of the connection between urban design, experience and the carbon energy system. It suggested that the green city, the low-carbon city and the happy city might be exactly the same destination.

In all things, find the spark of laughter, for humor is the light that softens the shadows, warms the heart, and reminds us that even in life's roughest moments, joy is never far away.